


Emeralds over Diamonds

by AmberKellyDarrow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: -Ish, F/M, Gen, I added 2 words to make one line more obviously sex, I have no idea where this would go on a timeline, I havent even watched supernatual in over a year, I've sat on this for like 2 years, IDK its a bad poem about Dean begging for death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sex, POV First Person, Poetry, Suicide Attempt, this was a school project I had in grade 12, um actual tags?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 16:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21449578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberKellyDarrow/pseuds/AmberKellyDarrow
Summary: IDK I wrote this in 12th grade then sat on it for two years and  I guess I finally have the confidence to post this. Its a poem of Dean begging for death and describing how absolutely broken he is
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	Emeralds over Diamonds

He was emerald green.

And he was the smell earth.

He was the feeling of a cold drink in August heat.

And a fire in the slush of February.

A hundred thousand spots I could never count,

Solid to lean on,

Soft to hold.

He was the smell of gasoline.

He was of stories unspoken.

Of words shan’t be said.

He was the sound of classic rock.

He was the sound of gargled rocks.

He had tried.

To hide.

To die.

To save the world.

Not himself.

Eyes.

Two emeralds.

Hiding the stories of blood diamonds.

His hands held soft.

His hands were filled with others shed blood.

He was the smell of cheap whiskey.

Or sugar sweet.

Gorging or Starving.

Drinking.

Halfway to liver failure.

Doorstep of Type II.

He was the smell of leather.

He was the feel of silk ties,

And beard burn on thighs.

The taste of salt in my throat.

His voice was rain in a drought.

His car a boat to freedom.

His life an epic.

He was raised a soldier.

He was raised to give-

_ Yes sir. _

_ Yes sir. _

_ Yes sir. _

He hardly bothered.

Everyone 

(but himself) 

Was worth the air.

He was a grunt with no leader.

He saved.

And he saved.

He died,

And was saved.

He tried harder.

Saved us all.

Still saw no worth.

He was still his father’s soldier.

When he had lost so much.

Mother.

Father.

Daughter.

Son.

The idea of his own redemption.

Perdition

The gun in my hands

On his knees.

He asked for the trigger.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Begging.

Once candy apple green.

Once a hundred thousand.

Leather. Silk. Solid.

Whiskey and Cavities.

Dulled,

Or black.

Dirt covered.

The smell of hellfire.

The reek of sulfur.

The feel of grime.

Pain.

Hurt.

He was of stories now spoken.

Of words newly said.

_ Click. Bang. _

_ Pnag _

_ Click. Bang. _

_ Tnk _

_ Click. Bang. _

_ Tnk _

_ Click. Bang. _

_ Tnk _

_ Click. Bang. _

_ Pnaing _

No.

He speaks one day.

_ Bluer than the sky. _

_ The smell of campfires. _

_ The feel of home. _

And;

He was emerald green.

And he was the smell earth.

He was the feeling of cold in the August heat.

And a fire in the slush of February .


End file.
